


Masterpiece

by professor



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Anal Plug, Bottom!Erik, Comeplay, Crying, Dubious Consent, Facials, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/pseuds/professor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An artist sculpts his finest creation.</p>
<p>Written for the X-Men Tales fic challenge on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has ART! The wonderful and talented amindaya created amazing fanart for this fic. You can go check it out and drool over it [here](http://amindaya.tumblr.com/post/31064539746/art-for-professors-pygmalion-fic-the-first-one). Be sure to click on the top gif to see it in action! And leave amindaya lots of love as well.
> 
> Also, thanks to firstlightofeos for the beta, and the xmen_tales chat for being general enablers.

Erik is a master of his craft. Kings and generals come to him in supplication, with offerings of gold and jewels, and in return, Erik shapes metal into weapons that will not bend or break or fail their wielders.

Until one day he stops. He packs food and drink, not a great deal of each. He shuts the door of his workshop and walks away, never to be heard from again, except for in song and legend.

*****

The poets tell a thousand stories about the fate of Erik the Smith, but what happened is this: Erik simply walked. He walked and walked and walked until he was far, far away from the land of his birth.

And then one day he stops. He builds a new workshop. He mends plows and tools and makes jewelry and trinkets, and sells them to the local townsfolk, so different from the people he left but so much the same.

He does not make weapons.

*****

Erik does not seek out company. The townsfolk, in turn, are incurious themselves, and let Erik be -- for this he is grateful, and it is one of the reasons he chooses to stay. 

Erik has his craft and his solitude, and he is content.

*****

And yet. There’s a restlessness he can’t explain.

A desire for things he cannot name.

*****

The idea comes to him one day that he should craft a statue.

*****

His powers, which have shaped weapons and trinkets and tools without fail, falter before this task. Erik grits his teeth and sets himself simpler exercises as practice, as though he were an apprentice learning at his father’s knee again. Today, a square, firm hand. The next day, a slender, well-turned ankle.

Erik practices and practices. It needs to be perfect. He won’t settle for anything less.

*****

There is a face in Erik’s mind.

He does not yet have the skill to recreate this face in the bronze that he is slowly bending to his will.

Erik wipes the sweat from his brow and keeps exercising his power, increasing his skill, perfecting his control. 

****

_In his dream, Erik has already crafted his statue, his skill up to the task. It graces his workshop, the loveliest thing he has ever created._

_Indeed, it looks less like a statue, and more like a man of living flesh, caught and frozen in a single moment in time._

_Erik contemplates his next project, and feels strangely as though he is being watched._

_Flashes of color appear in the corner of his eye, as though if Erik turned around quickly enough he would see not a statue of bronze but instead --_

Erik wakes, panting, sweat dripping down face.

The images of his dream vanish like mist in the morning. Only flashes remain.

*****

Erik eats a simple meal of bread and olives, washed down with plain water. It occurs to him, faintly, to trade for wine during his next trip to town.

He’s tired. What started as a lark, a small test of his skills, is consuming him. He knows this.

And yet he cannot stop.

*****

But every time Erik thinks he’s hit his breaking point --

His eyelids flutter shut, and he wakes up, in his own bed, after a deep and restful sleep. He recalls only flashes of his dreams, but he knows they were sweet and pleasant. He has no reliable way to keep time, and Erik will often discover later he has slept not for a few hours, but for two or three days.

He would worry, but it is after each one of these deep slumbers that he makes a leap in skill, in creativity, inching closer and closer to his goal.

And it’s after one of these slumbers that Erik finally knows he’s ready.

*****

Erik calls the metal and it comes, bending to his will, shaping itself exactly to his desires.

*****

Erik had considered several poses for the final version of his statue.

Standing upright, the arms outstretched in welcome. Or walking, with one foot forward, a dynamic, changing pose. Or perhaps one hand held out in offering, supplication.

But when Erik calls the metal for the final time, he shapes a man in repose, reclining at leisure. And to Erik’s astonishment, he finds himself crafting the statue with an erect phallus, though he had no intention or thought of doing so, before.

And yet, any other pose would be _wrong_. Why this is so, Erik cannot say.

*****

The bronze holds no color other than its own, and yet Erik knows what this man would look like in living flesh -- pale skin, black hair curling sweetly around his face. Beardless like a youth, and with red lips like a maiden.

Blue eyes like the sky just after sunset, the hottest part of the forge’s flame.

And familiar. Erik remembers them, in flashes, from his dreams.

*****

Erik wakes under the light of the full moon, yet feels like he is still dreaming.

He has no other explanation for his next actions.

He crawls over to the reclining figure, and stares at it for a long time, before leaning forward and licking a stripe up the underside of the statue’s erect phallus. After that first, tentative lick, a wall breaks and Erik licks and licks and licks, eagerly, enthusiastically, making sure to cover the phallus with wetness.

Warm amusement fills Erik’s mind, and he finds himself standing and walking over to the table, picking up the small vessel of oil he’d purchased that day at the market without knowing why.

Erik sinks back down to the floor, and fingers himself open as though he were no more than a youth himself, though he is years beyond such things. He’s spread open and on display for anyone to see, and he blushes with the shame of it --

(Foolishness. Erik lives alone and far from others, there is no one to see.)

Erik is generous with the oil, until his ass and taint and thighs are slick with it. He pours more oil into his cupped hand, and slicks up the statue’s cock, with a sense of distant unreality of what he is about to do.

The metal is warmer than he expected, as he slides down onto it. It is hard and unyielding, and thus it is Erik who gives way. He gasps at the sensation of being filled, stretched open and split apart.

Bracing his hands, he starts to ride, slowly at first, and then faster. And faster. He rides until his thighs burn and beads of sweat are trickling down his torso, and still he does not stop.

His own cock is hard, aching, leaking. He burns to touch it and yet stays his hand -- he knows not why.

Something is building. His own release, Erik would think -- but no. Something greater. The air is thick with it, hot and heavy. And still Erik rides.

Until his hips tilt of their own volition and the phallus buried inside him touches something --

\-- and sparks dance up his spine and behind his eyes

\-- and Erik arches his back and screams --

Screams and screams as his climax takes him, as he stripes come all over the statue’s torso, as he is utterly lost in a timeless moment of ecstasy.

Erik sinks down, down, and further still.

He slumps forward as darkness takes him.

*****

Erik awakens to the scent of lilies and myrrh. Warm arms cradle him and a sweet, low voice murmurs precious nonsense in his ear.

He opens his eyes.

The man’s smile is even sweeter sculpted in flesh than it was in cold, lifeless bronze.

Erik is aware he should speak, but words do not come. He moves, or attempts to. And realizes the stranger’s cock is still buried deep inside Erik.

And -- Erik blushes -- still hard.

The stranger’s smile takes on a mischievous cast. “Thank you for the offering,” he says, and Erik, mystified, is about to ask what the stranger means, when the other man drags his fingers through the come Erik has spilled upon his chest.

And slowly, thoroughly, licks his fingers clean.

Erik cannot look away.

The stranger repeats the process, but this time, offers his fingers to Erik. Erik tentatively leans forward, and with soft, steady flicks of his tongue, licks up every drop.

“Oh, you’re so good. I knew you would be,” croons the stranger, and Erik flushes hot from the man’s praise.

The stranger rolls them onto their sides and pulls out, and Erik whimpers softly from soreness and oversensitivity.

But Erik does not resist when the man positions -- poses -- Erik on hands and knees, thighs spread. And when the man slides his cock back inside Erik, it feels like a missing piece slotting back into place.

“My beautiful Erik,” says the man, and Erik would wonder how he learned his name, but then the man starts fucking him, and Erik is lost.

Every thrust is precisely angled to hit that same spot inside Erik that led to his first climax -- and it’s too much, the pleasure overwhelming and intertwining with the pain of overstimulation until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. It’s exquisite. Erik never wants it to end.

Tears stream down Erik’s cheeks as the other man thrusts into him with abandon, and somehow Erik finds his voice.

“Please,” Erik begs, desperate and wanting. “Please, _please._ ”

“Please what?” asks the other man, his voice rich and dark.

“Please keep -- don’t stop. Don’t ever stop,” Erik begs. He keeps begging in broken words until he loses them, and then he just -- moans, moans and moans, never wants the pleasure to end. His cock is hard again, hot and full and weeping. A thought flutters across his mind, that Erik should stroke -- but almost as the thought forms, the other man reaches down and strokes Erik’s cock, three times, hard and fast.

Erik gives a broken cry as he climaxes for the second time that night, a feat he has not achieved since his youth. His limbs wobble and he collapses, right into the pool of his own come.

His partner gives a breathy sigh and finds his own release, spilling his hot seed deep inside Erik.

Once again, Erik falls into darkness.

*****

Charles wakes just as the first rays of the sun-chariot touch the horizon. He takes a moment to simply _be_ \-- to revel in the weight, the heaviness of his newfound flesh, cataloguing the various sensations -- the soreness of muscles, the beat of his heart and thrum of his blood, the bellows-movement of his lungs, drawing in sweet, clear dawn air.

Next to him Erik murmurs and stirs, but does not wake.

Charles smiles indulgently as he softly cards his fingers through Erik's hair. Sweet Erik. He’d pushed himself so hard on Charles’ behalf. He deserves to rest now.

Still .... Charles props himself up on his elbow and flicks the coverlet away, revealing the hard solid planes of Erik’s body for Charles to gaze upon, a feast for the eyes.

Charles is well-pleased with his situation at the moment. He has a vessel again, well-formed and solidly built and pleasing to the eye. He has a dwelling, and a beautiful companion to share it with. He is content.

Charles is, after all, a very old and minor godling. He doesn’t need temples and droves of followers.

A single hand-picked acolyte -- _worshipper_ \-- will serve his needs quite well.

*****

Erik awakens slowly, rested and warm and content.

“Hello,” says a low voice in his ear.

Erik turns and looks into the blue eyes of the man curled up in bed with him.

The man from last night. The man who is -- _was_ a statue, Erik’s creation come to life.

It seems impossible, a dream made flesh. And yet Erik is all too eager to embrace this reality.

“Hello,” says Erik softly, afraid to speak louder lest the other man vanish like dew in the morning sun.

The other man quirks a grin. “I will not. And you may call me Charles.” He rises from the bed, and Erik tries not to feel bereft at the loss of his warmth. But as it turns out, Erik hardly has time to miss him when Charles returns with a bowl of figs.

Charles holds out a fig for Erik to take. “You should eat, replenish your strength.”

Erik reaches out to pluck the fig from Charles’ fingers, but Charles shakes his head and brings the fig to Erik’s lips.

_Oh._ Erik parts his lips to accept the offering. Charles feeds him several more figs, the ripe fruits bursting with flavor on his tongue, until his hunger is sated.

“I would like to thank you,” says Charles, after he sets down the bowl. “For crafting this vessel. I appreciate the skill and effort you expended.”

“I was glad to,” says Erik, and as he speaks the words he finds them to be true.

“Still. I think you deserve a _proper_ reward,” says Charles, a strange light glittering in his eyes.

Erik gasps when Charles wraps his warm hand around Erik’s half-hard cock.

“You don’t,” Erik gasps. “You don’t _need_ to -- “

Charles looks at him, eyes wide and guileless. “But I _want_ to, Erik,” says Charles, as he strokes up and down, up and down.

Erik moans as the hand on his cock moves faster, squeezes harder, as Charles whispers increasingly filthy things in his ear.

And when Charles bites down on his neck, Erik shudders and comes apart, spurting hot semen all over Charles’ hand and his own belly.

Erik shivers through the aftershocks, burrowing into the warmth of Charles’ embrace. Charles drops kisses on his hair and murmurs in his ear how good Erik is, how beautiful he is, and Erik wants to wrap Charles’ words around himself like a warm comforting blanket.

*****

Erik is not at all practiced at this, but Charles doesn’t seem to mind, grabbing Erik’s hair and holding him in place, moaning and writhing under Erik’s mouth, telling Erik how good he is --

Something about Charles’ words kindles arousal deep in Erik’s belly, and he strives to please Charles, paying close attention to Charles’ responses and noting and repeating what he likes best.

Erik revels in the feel, the weight of Charles’ cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head, tasting the salty bitterness of the fluid slowly dripping out of the slit.

Erik has received praise and accolades for decades for his craft, but none are as sweet and heady as the look on Charles’ face when Erik makes him come.

*****

Charles settles into Erik’s home as naturally as if he has always been there. (Which of course he has.)

He takes over management of the household chores so Erik has more time for his craft. Or, more precisely, so Erik can spend the exact same amount of time on his craft as he did prior to working on Charles’ vessel, and then use his newly freed up time attending to Charles’ wants.

Charles’ wants are very simple, and Charles is pleased with how open to _direction_ Erik is.

*****

Erik wonders, sometimes, just why Charles is so eager to couple with him, so often.

“You don’t need to --” he begins, awkwardly, one morning, when he wakes up and sees Charles already slicking oil on his thighs. “I wouldn’t ask you to -- I would let you stay, and take care of you, regardless. Of. Whether or not --”

“Thank you,” says Charles, not unkindly. “I knew that. But I wonder. You offer to take care of me. But who takes care of _you_ , Erik?” asks Charles, and the question steals Erik’s breath away.

No one. No one takes care of Erik. He’s been alone ever since his parents died in the plague, after he’d barely completed his apprenticeship. There’s been nothing and no one for Erik but his craft, and he’d buried himself in his craft to hide from the fact that he would forever be alone --

Erik doesn’t even realize he’s been weeping until Charles wipes his tears away.

Charles whispers sweet comforting words as he straddles Erik, wrapping his arms around Erik and holding him tight. “You’re not alone, Erik,” he murmurs as he rolls his hips against Erik’s cock. “You’re not alone.”

Erik thrusts helplessly between Charles’ slicked-up thighs, crying as Charles kisses his tears away.

“You will never be alone again,” promises Charles and Erik moans and comes.

*****

Charles wonders, in turn, how Erik cannot see what a gift he is, beautiful, rare and precious.

Charles chose him for a reason.

*****

It’s the matter of a moment for Erik to shape a mirror out of silver, after Charles requests it of him.

Charles carefully starts to outline his eyes in kohl while looking in the mirror, watching Erik out of the corner of his eye while pretending not to do so. Erik stares at him in fascination.

Charles finishes, and blinks at Erik. “What do you think? Did I do well?”

“What is it?” asks Erik.

“Kohl,” says Charles. “From the land of the pharaohs.” He holds out the stick. “Would you like to try some?” he asks, careful to sound careless about it.

Erik voices a denial, but even as he speaks, he can’t help but stare at the kohl in Charles’ hands.

“Are you sure?” asks Charles, voice honey-warm. “Not even to please me?” Charles cups his hand around Erik’s cheek and Erik leans into the touch. Erik’s eyelids fall shut, and he nods.

Charles thinks that Erik’s eyes, always lovely, look exquisite with enhancement. 

*****

It’s the act of dressing one morning, in preparation to visit the market, that makes Erik realize he hasn’t dressed for quite some time.

Charles, of course, does not wear clothing, and he’s spent quite a lot of time removing Erik’s own garments in the days since his arrival.

But Erik cannot recall when he himself simply stopped doing so as well.

(Perhaps it was when he realized that Charles saw his nudity as an invitation, that Charles would often stop mid-sentence, sometimes mid-word, and manhandle Erik down to his knees and shove his cock into Erik’s mouth until Erik is choking on it, and fuck Erik’s mouth _hard_ , until Erik’s face is red with exertion and tears are streaming down his face and then Charles spills his seed and it’s overflowing Erik’s mouth, spilling down over his lips and --)

\-- Erik frowns, and shakes away a stray thought. There’s no need for him to go to market; their larder is well-stocked.

The tunic falls unnoticed from Erik’s hand.

*****

“Hands and knees, Erik,” says Charles lazily.

Erik assumes the position, almost before Charles has finished speaking.

There’s a tiny part of Erik that feels shamed at being so accommodating, so _pliant_. But. Everything Charles does with him, does _to_ him, feels so amazing. Erik just -- _wants_ , every touch, every feeling, every sensation. All of it.

“Shhhhh,” murmurs Charles as he bites his way across Erik’s shoulder blades. “None of that, pet. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.” 

Charles moves behind him and breathes hotly against Erik’s entrance. “You’re so good for me,” he says. The praise goes straight to Erik’s cock, as it always does. Erik moans quietly.

“After all, look at this wonderful toy you made me,” says Charles, tracing the end of the metal plug Erik had fashioned at Charles’ behest. “You crafted it when I asked you to and wore it without complaint, knowing -- _trusting_ \-- that I had a good reason. And so I do.”

Charles smacks the plug lightly and Erik gasps as sparks dance behind his eyes.

“Because it lets me do this,” Charles whispers as he pulls out the plug and slides into Erik in almost the same motion. Erik gasps again at the sensation of Charles’ cock inside him -- it always feels so _right_ splitting him open, plunged deep inside, warm and hard, much better than the plug. Erik clenches a few times before Charles gives him a gentle slap in reprimand. 

Charles rolls his hips in a slow, easy pace, hitting just the right spot over and over and over. He takes his time, and Erik feels like he’s drowning in sensation and pleasure. 

“Charles,” he gasps out, “Charles, _Charles_ \--”

“Come for me,” says Charles and Erik cries out and obeys.

He collapses and barely notices when Charles finds his own release. He dimly registers Charles pulling out and repositioning him.

Erik doesn’t return his attention to the proceedings until he feels Charles spread him wide open and lick the come dripping out of Erik’s hole.

“I could lick all of this out of you,” says Charles thoughtfully and Erik _whines_. “But no, I’ve a better idea.” And Charles slides the plug back into Erik, sealing in his come, and Erik feels dirty and used and _owned_.

“ _Perfection_ ,” breathes Charles as he climbs up Erik’s body and kisses him. Erik tastes Charles’ come and moans against his lips.

Later that evening, when Charles comes again on Erik’s face (and Erik can still feel Charles’ seed trapped inside him), Erik feels no shame, only joy.

*****

Erik sometimes wonders if Charles is the answer to a prayer, except that Erik has not prayed for years, either to the many gods of the townsfolk or to the one god of his parents.

He mentions this to Charles, once, who laughs and whispers, “There are many forms of prayer, and _worship_ ,” as he pulls Erik down into their bed.

*****

Erik is no longer alone.

As he sinks to his knees and takes Charles’ cock into his mouth, he thinks this must be what peace feels like.


End file.
